


my dreams have grown too quiet once again

by tiltingheartand



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltingheartand/pseuds/tiltingheartand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells himself about fifteen times that it's a stupid idea, but somehow the next day he finds himself at the entrance to the fair anyway.</p>
<p>(It's not the same. It's nowhere <i>near</i> the same. It's close enough.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	my dreams have grown too quiet once again

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5758.html?thread=7821694#t7821694), from avengerkink@LJ: _Taken from the tumblr Avengersheadcanons:_
> 
> _"Clint has been banned from several amusement parks and carnivals under the assumption of cheating because he would always win when it came to games involving accuracy"_
> 
> _Run with it anons!_
> 
> _+1000000 if Coulson happens to be there and wants to recruit him ___

He's been out for almost two months when he breaks.

(This is how he refers to it, in his head: he's been out. That way there's no responsibility on either side, no implied screaming fights or broken noses or soft-spoken death threats. He's been out.)

The thing is he's been doing pretty well, if he says so himself -- in lieu of any actual purpose to life that he can find, as of yet, he's been hitching across the country in fits and starts. Probably he could rent a car, but why bother? He doesn't really have a destination, does he, and anyway a place that would let him rent a car would be a place that would want to see his ID. Someone on the highway with a soft spot for slightly scruffy barely-grown men doesn't go to that much trouble.

So what he does, and he's managed not to tip anyone off yet, as far as he knows, is stay a few days in every city he passes through, maybe even a week, and hustle. He's better at darts than he is at pool, but he's better at darts than he is at a lot of things, so that's not saying very much, really. He's very careful, when he does this, to not leave too much of an impression, to give the marks the idea that he's doing it for fun, not because he's a sociopath or something, to not piss anyone off.

(Because despite what a surprising number of people will say -- _loudly_ \-- Clint is not _actually_ stupid.)

And if he picks the marks right, and plays it right, he can make himself a couple thousand dollars in less than a week. More, if he hits more than one bar in a night (he never hits the same place twice, because that really _would_ be stupid, and anyway he's figured out a decent way to get the most out of whatever city he's in) and doesn't fuck up along the way. Some of that goes to motel rooms -- nobody's going to pick up him up on the side of the road if they can smell him through the open window, seriously, showers are serious business -- but he's got what's starting to be a sizable amount of money saved up, now.

Or maybe not saved up. However you refer to it when you're keeping your money on you at all times. Stashed? No, he doesn't have anywhere to stash it.

He's got this idea of maybe making it out to California and settling down in some tiny town by the water, somehow. He's not sure why but the idea has a weird appeal. It'll keep, though, so he keeps wandering, but now instead of aimlessly he's always going vaguely west.

And then one night he's setting up a shot and hears two guys behind him talking about the fair that's "in town for like a week, I don't know, all she does is talk about it and god knows I hate carnivals but I hate listening to her bitch worse, you wanna bring your girl too?"

And something hits him in his chest, and he almost misses his shot and gets the bulls-eye, because apparently he's homesick.

It's idiotic to be homesick, because he hasn't had a home since he was six and a cop woke him up in the middle of the night, his babysitter standing at the foot of his bed and trying not to cry too obviously, but the feeling persists and he really, _really_ resents it.

He tells himself about fifteen times that it's a stupid idea, but somehow the next day he finds himself at the entrance to the fair anyway.

(It's not the same. It's nowhere _near_ the same. It's close enough.)

First stop is funnel cake, because _obviously_ funnel cake, he has plans for at least one more before the night is through. Now he's here, though, he's not sure what he's here _for_ , so he walks around with his giant mess of fried batter and powdered sugar and people-watches.

They're the same everywhere.

Or -- okay, no. They are not _that_ the same, he thinks, and keeps walking, face in exactly the same expression it had been before, despite the fact that he saw the guy who just passed him two cities ago, in a bar that looked way too seedy for him to be there. The guy ought to have stuck out like a sore thumb, and yet.

He ought to have stuck out like a sore thumb here, too, and yet.

Whatever, Clint thinks, and finishes his funnel cake, swiping a truly obscene amount of powdered sugar off his face. He can feel the rest still sitting there, though, and has a very brief argument with himself before caving and ducking into a bathroom to wash it off.

It's possible the guy is stalking him. Pointless, but possible. But there's nothing he can do about it at the moment, is there.

So he gets a grilled ear of corn and walks around some more. There's a show with a bunch of seals he really enjoys, and some tigers that aren't too lively but are still amazing, and an elephant that looks _incredibly_ bored. There are some clowns, too, and some rides -- tiny roller coasters, some saucer that spins you out to the edge, shit like that -- but he can't imagine having very much fun on a ride like that alone.

(He has memories, fuzzy ones, of going to an amusement park when he was very small. He rode a tiny sled up and down and around a hill and laughed until he thought his head was going to fall off, and when they got off his mom picked him up because he was too wobbly to walk by himself.

The memory makes him smile, so he tries not to think of it too much, in case he wears it out.)

And eventually, somehow, he winds up on the midway.

Somehow, like there was really any other possibility, in the end.

So he buys tickets, more than he's ever going to use, and shoves them in his pockets and starts sizing up the games. Most of them are chance, and most of _them_ are at least a little rigged, but there's still a good number that are skill.

Well. "Skill." He watches someone crash and burn at the balloon dart game and wonders how many people realize these ones are rigged, too. (Probably not many; you'd have to be looking closely to notice. And maybe know what to look for. He's both.)

For a second he wonders if the hustling thing will work here, too -- no point to it, just semi-professional curiosity -- so he thinks, well, why not, and steps up.

The guy grins at him, sizing him up between cheerful patter, and gives Clint three darts; Clint transfers two to his right hand, eyes the board for a second or two, and proceeds to completely miss with all three darts. He pretends to be heartbroken, makes a face and gives the guy more tickets.

This time he almost makes the shot with one of them. He mutters to himself, and when the guy asks he says something vague about his girlfriend loving carnivals, how he wanted to win her something for their six-month anniversary in a couple days, only it looks like he sucks too much for that to happen. He makes another face, clearly thinking it over, and then hands the guy some more tickets, making it clear that after this he's giving up.

The guy grins and slips him an extra dart.

He makes three of the four, this time, but he's careful to only make one of them clean, and to be surprised every time he hears a balloon pop. The guy looks surprised too, and unpleasantly so, but he hands over a stuffed animal anyway, already paying attention to the people behind Clint, focusing on the next marks.

Clint leaves the tiger on a bench by a wing stand. Some kid will pick it up, he's sure.

A chicken sandwich, another funnel cake, and an hour and a half later, he's found what he supposes he was working toward the whole time, and it's funny that this is what's passing for a bow & arrow game.

It's dead, though, so he steps up, grins at the guy running the game, and empties a pocket of tickets onto the counter. The guy shrugs, says something inane, hands over the bow and the ammo and Clint has to fight not to laugh. When he asks how many shots he gets the guy shrugs again, face threatening to break out into a smile, and says he can shoot until he's gotten three targets in a row.

Three targets and three arrows later, the guy's face has started thinking about clouding over, Clint dumps some more tickets onto the counter, and the guy tells him hey, what the hell, he can shoot until he misses twice.

(It's a nice concession, Clint thinks.)

Part of his mind is shouting STOP DOING THIS IT'S A BAD IDEA as loudly as it possibly can, because this is definitely going to draw attention and that is really one of the last things he needs, but whatever danger he's in is worth it for the feeling he gets when he starts loosing the arrows into the targets behind the counter. Every so often he has to pause while the guy gathers them up and gives them back, and his face is getting progressively darker. This is a really bad idea.

He keeps going anyway.

He's starting to draw a crowd, now, he knows, should be getting the hell out, should be gone by now. No way this ends well.

He keeps going anyway.

He sees, when he's theoretically occupied with hitting every target he hits but practically watching the guy running the game, the glances the guy's shooting out at the crowd. There's security out there, he's sure; there's always security. He's not sure how much longer he can go until someone bumps up behind him by accident and makes him miss a shot, then does it again and makes him miss the second, and then he gets a giant stuffed fish. And, he's sure, a burly guy descending upon him when he's twenty-five feet away, one hand around Clint's bicep as he says softly that he won't ever show his face around here again, will he, because they don't hold with cheating here, and that's clearly what he's doing, so.

After a few more minutes, and after he's started to worry that the guy behind the counter is inching toward having a stroke of some kind, Clint sees the guy from a few towns back in the corner of his eye. He's just hanging back at the edge of the crowd, silent, and it's weird how people are barely noticing him, because isn't he wearing a suit?

But no, when he looks closer (sinks three arrows into three targets, just misses counter guy's sleeve when he gets a little too close and fails to look even slightly repentant), the guy from a few towns back is wearing jeans and a button-down. Not really the best choice for a carnival, but not too out-of-place, either.

Maybe he just has a suity face.

The memory surfaces eight arrows later: seven towns back and he'd been at a nice bar, an _actual_ nice one, not looking to make any money for once but just looking for a slow evening, and he'd seen the guy from across the room. He'd been wearing a suit then, but at seven o'clock on a Thursday near downtown that was far from unheard of. Clint sat there and drank his beer (and his second beer) and watched one of the TVs, ate shitty bar food and wondered why this guy he'd never seen before was looking at him every so often.

Studying him, actually, would probably be more accurate.

So this is the third time Clint's seen suity-faced guy. There's no way that's a coincidence. Two times wouldn't have been, three times goes straight past alarming and into creepy. And it's that as much as the vein he can see in the guy behind the counter's forehead that makes him start slowing down, hitting the targets sloppier, finally missing two and swearing under his breath.

He gets a bright purple bear -- the guy doesn't even ask him which one he wants -- and a look that could probably kill small children. It's possible he's going to make it to the exit without any incidents with burly men if he's quick.

As it happens, it's not a burly man he has to look out for, it's a guy in jeans and a button-down that looks like he should be wearing a suit who steps up next to him when they're fifty feet away, says, "That was quite a display, Mr. Barton. Do you think it was a wise one?"

And -- Barton, how the hell does this guy know that, he's given a lot of names over the past two months but none of them have been anywhere close to his real name, this is now _incredibly_ creepy, and he's starting to long for the hypothetical burly men when suity-faced guy stops and somehow, Clint is stopping with him, he doesn't know why.

"You're better at that than at the darts, and you're better at the darts than at pool, and you're better with an actual bow than you are at hustling, so what are you doing here?" the guy says, and Clint starts to wonder if maybe he'd passed out somewhere back there from too much sugar, because there is _no way_ this is happening.

And then suity-faced guy presses a card into his empty right hand, closes Clint's fingers around it, says, "Think about it, Mr. Barton. It's a better living than hitching. You won't keep hitting the not-a-serial-killer lotto forever, you know."

And then suity-faced guy -- Agent Coulson, according to the card, and Agent? what the hell? what the hell is S.H.I.E.L.D.? -- walks away, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, and Clint doesn't know why but he sets the purple bear down and keeps the card.

He'll probably toss it before he leaves town.

(Probably.)


End file.
